


Chef

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-11
Updated: 2014-12-11
Packaged: 2018-03-01 00:22:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2752613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Smaug attempts to deliver Bilbo’s craving.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chef

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Dill for winterkoaladreams’ “Smaug watching Bilbo craving for ice cream and figuring out how to grant him his wish” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

In the dead of winter like this, there are less adventures; Smaug’s burning scales can withstand the heat, but Bilbo’s skin is too delicate, and he likes to stay wrapped up in the depths of their mountain, tucked into the curve of Smaug’s tail. Smaug nestles in with him, warm breath toasting the crisp air around them, though the far-off ceilings of stone are still lined with towering icicles. Smaug would hibernate through this, but then he’d miss too much time with Bilbo. 

So he lies still, drowsy, and watches his little hobbit draw smoke from a tiny wooden pipe, puffing out rings in more intricate shapes than Smaug’s smoke ever forms. Bilbo seems to take great pleasure in the activity. He leans back against Smaug’s heat, his head pillowed on Smaug’s scales, honey hair spread about the different shades of crimson. His blue coat is all that’s around him, the white fur a pale contrast to his flushed skin. The back of his neck is beaded with sweat; Smaug is a living furnace. Bilbo is a beautiful creature, though his pretty eyes are distant, pensive in this moment, and Smaug murmurs, “What are you think of, my treasure?”

Bilbo’s lips curl up at the edges, eyes coming back into focus. He looks at Smaug and sighs, “Ice cream.” As Smaug’s ridged brow knits together, Bilbo blissfully continues, “Cold weather always makes me crave it; I used to love having a filled bowl next to the hearth.” He stops to laugh, a lovely, chiming thing, and pats the spiked end of Smaug’s tail curled beside his legs. “And you’re my fire now.”

Smaug is happy to be that, but he still doesn’t understand. “What is... ‘ice cream’?” He knows what cream is, and he knows what ice is, but he can’t imagine frozen cream to be very good. Bilbo smiles as if he understands Smaug’s thinking.

“It’s not so different than how it sounds, although it’s flavoured. Slushy, flavoured ice, I suppose. It’s a dessert.”

Dessert. Tea time. Hobbits have such strange food customs, whereas dragons simply eat whatever they will whenever they’re hungry. But Smaug doesn’t criticize his lover’s culture, only sits back and retreats into his head. Bilbo goes back to his relaxing little smoke-circles, looking nonetheless content for his lack of ice cream. 

But Smaug doesn’t like his lover to be lacking anything. He would give Bilbo the stars, if he could, and he doesn’t like to think of something so small as a certain meal as out of his grasp. The more he looks at Bilbo’s far-off, hungry look, the more the fondness in Smaug’s chest swells into his own craving, morphs into longing and the ever-present urge to please. Taking care of Bilbo has become his new life’s purpose, and Bilbo shouldn’t have to want for anything. 

But how to fetch flavoured ice? He considers, at first, raiding the local village of men, but before he even gets into how to find his target and take it back, he discards the idea—Bilbo wouldn’t like it. And that would defeat the purpose. He’d fly Bilbo to the Shire if it were warmer, but Bilbo wouldn’t last a journey of that distance at this time of year, with the fierce, frozen winds as they are. He has magic, of course, as all dragons do, but it’s an ancient, natural thing, and he doubts he could use it for such a specific and odd purpose. Then there is the option of simply taking flight out of the mountain, scooping snow up in his claws, and bringing it back to squeeze meat or whatever else above it and letting the juices trickle in. But then, whatever snow Smaug gathers in his palm will inevitably melt, and he doubts Bilbo is looking for a fistful of water. 

The last thing he considers, a final thought, is a stray glance up at the ceilings. The icicles are the closest form of snow he has. He’s not sure how well it’ll work, of course, but that is the way with most things of Bilbo’s culture, and Smaug has always gained favour for trying. On a whim, he lifts his muzzle and snorts out a thin, long blaze of fire, so quick that it lashes off into the distance and is gone less than a second later. But it hit its target, the tapered base of a low-hanging icicle, and the severed top plummets to the ground. Bilbo doesn’t notice, doesn’t move, until it’s come crashing down in his lap, shattering into billions of tiny fragments, something like a sharper snow. Bilbo makes a startled noise, nearly jumping, but Smaug was careful with his aim, and it’s landed precisely on Bilbo’s fabric-covered thighs. Gathered there, the frozen shards twinkle up at Bilbo’s wide eyes, and Smaug allows himself a pleased grin. There is nothing he can’t bring his Bilbo. 

He purrs, “What should I bring from our food stores?” When Bilbo blinks up at him, he elaborates, “For the flavouring. I will crush whatever you like into it.” For a second, Bilbo looks confused.

Then he snorts, breaks into a large smile, throws his head back and _laughs._ Smaug would frown, but he knows when he’s being teased versus when Bilbo’s genuinely overcome by mirth, and this is pure, good laughter. Bilbo’s still wracked with giggles as he declares, “You’re very good to me, Smaug.”

Though the reaction tells him he wasn’t quite on point, Smaug still smirks under the praise. “I try, little one.”

“But that’s not quite right for ice cream.” As Bilbo shovels the makeshift snow off his stomach, Smaug sends a puff of warm breath to blow and melt the remainder away. The sting of his failure is lessened by Bilbo’s clear delight. Reaching back to affectionately rub Smaug’s tail, Bilbo insists, “It doesn’t matter. I’d much rather have you, anyway.” 

Smaug leans his muzzle down to nuzzle into his hobbit and wonders if he should try his magic next.


End file.
